I’m sitting at my computer, but my fingers have lost their rhythm. They’re rigid. Mechanical. Impotent. It’s as if they know or have been here before and recognize the shackles that bound my Black ancestors are the same ones we wear today.
History lacks originality, always emerging in new skin encasing the same old terror.
I’m a writer and I’m supposed to bring eloquence to our coarse dialogue, a balm to our pain, beauty to our ashes. But there’s nothing new to say, nothing but what’s been said before and will be said again.
The world knows Kenosha, Wisconsin now, and news anchors nationwide stumble over its pronunciation. I grew up not too far away in Chicago, and my first job as a television news reporter was with a small, independent station in Kenosha. The town fell silent about six years before I moved there when the Chrysler plant closed, and thousands of jobs disappeared. I remember the gaping hole of despair in that community with an empty assembly plant sitting in the heart of town, its hum silenced.
I also distinctly remember one photographer at my station who greeted me loudly every time I entered the newsroom: “Here comes Nancy, there goes the neighborhood.” Attempting to sweeten his venom, he often chased his insult with a chuckle. Decades later, in that same town, seven state-sanctioned bullets pierced the back of Jacob Blake and I can’t say I’m surprised about the devaluing of Black life. It’s in the DNA of Kenosha and every other corner of America.
I’m formally and professionally trained as a writer, but my real education comes from living in a Black body. That daily reality informs what I write, how I write, and why I write.
In my fiction, Black bodies tense in police encounters and face oppressive systems. Yet those same bodies allow muscle memory to transport them to the hand-clapping games and double-dutch rope of their youth. They slam their cards and trash talk at the Spades table. They live. They’re more than their pain. And I’m uniquely suited to bring them to life on the page.
I want my writing to be a guiding light of education and understanding, a bridge connecting Black and brown people with our white neighbors. Writing can be a lofty, altruistic endeavor, but it can also be hazardous. Living while Black and then writing about it can be injurious. Truth-telling costs. The emotional labor of justifying my outrage and explaining my humanity is exhausting.
The importance of this work complicates everything. People say this is the largest multiracial movement for change ever in the history of America. After a string of deaths of unarmed Black people this year, white folks began reading about the Black experience in this country. That is a good thing. Yet for the Black writer, there’s a price to pay even for that good thing.
We rejoice in building our careers and finding new audiences for our work. The gift of our voices is meeting the moment. However, something doesn’t feel quite right about it. Black trauma shouldn’t lead to spikes in sales for Black books. No one should consider patronizing a Black bookstore an act of charity. There should be no cause and effect. If you believe Black lives matter, then Black stories, Black authors, and Black booksellers should matter year-round, not just when another Black life is snuffed out.
It also needs to be said that one can’t cram for the anti-racism exam. Yet here we are. Some of my white counterparts are trying to binge-read what I’ve experienced in close to a half century of living. Even the most prolific text can’t close that gap. Still, I’m gratified by the empathy, the sincere interest, and the desire to understand. It’s important though to be a lifelong learner. The course syllabus is only a guide and it can’t confer a degree of changed policies or changed hearts. The things that last will be the genuine relationships you develop, the votes you cast, and the progress that you demand.
As writers, we know caricatures are poor substitutes for the complexity of real people. I’m always seeking stories that add color and dimension to the lives we’ve lost, because I understand that those victims are more than chalk outlines on black asphalt. Black lives are more than that.
We’re more than hashtags.
We’re more than our spilled blood.
We’re more than our private pain made public.
Breonna Taylor loved driving her Dodge Charger with the dual exhaust that made it go vroom!
George Floyd sang to his high school football team to lift the players’ spirits during tough practices.
Ahmaud Arbery surprised his Mom with handwritten notes and would give her a funny side-eye to make her laugh.
When we say their names, we must know that they were complex—scarred and beautiful like all of us—fully human people before they were defined in death and deified through memory.
It occurred to me that as a writer I’m the sculptor adding the texture, the layers that give a life or character its fullness, its richness. That’s how I can write through the pain to find Black joy, and tell that, too.
Blood is pumping through my fingers now. They’re limber. I guess it’s time to write.
I welcome your perspective and look forward to the conversation.
About Nancy Johnson
Nancy Johnson (she/her) is the debut author of THE KINDEST LIE, forthcoming February 2 from William Morrow/HarperCollins. Her novel has been named a most anticipated book of 2021 by Marie Claire, Good Housekeeping, Refinery29, Woman's Day, and PopSugar. A graduate of Northwestern University and The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Nancy lives in downtown Chicago. Find her online at https://nancyjohnson.net/.
Love this, Nancy. Thanks so much for taking the time and mental space to share your life experience. Especially “as a writer I’m the sculptor adding the texture, the layers that give a life or character its fullness, its richness.” We definitely all have that in common, though not all of us sculpt as well as you do!
Hi, Carol! I agree that we’re all sculptors. Even in our fiction, when we create characters and breathe life into them, we’re impacting how the world sees the people those characters represent. That’s why it’s important work for me.
Thanks! :)
Thanks for giving us all food for thought again, Nancy! I have to say recent events did shake many people awake, even over here in Europe. I am a white, middle-aged woman living in a comfy expat-bubble in the Netherlands. My kids go to international schools, so we are used to many cultures, colours and thoughts. But lately I started to think: while enjoying my international happy life, do I block out the depressing reality somewhere else? And just because it is better here, does that mean it is good enough? I started reading and thinking and reading more … and still thinking. – You are right, one cannot binge-read experience. But one has to start sometime and somewhere, right? Just before the holidays, our kids’ school started parent focus groups against racism. – You probably laugh now, because this sounds so intellectual, so not-down-to-earth. Will it do any good? Not sure … all I know that for me, everything starts in the mind.
J, thank you for sharing how you’re experiencing this from the Netherlands. I appreciate your perspective. It’s easy to move through life without recognizing how systemic racism affects the people around us. Sometimes it does take horrible events to “shake many people awake.”
Opening our minds through books is a great start. It just can’t be the stopping point. Sounds like you’re already doing anti-racism work, which is important.
Thanks again!
Thanks, Nancy, for your post. You wrote, “The emotional labor of justifying my outrage and explaining my humanity is exhausting.” I felt that exhaustion at the beginning of your post, and the different energy with which you finished it. In that process you showed me something about my own process – my default is to say nothing, write nothing, blend into the woodwork.
That was useful as a kid, when I wanted my mother to leave me alone and to my private world of fiction. Not so useful as an adult, and clearly not useful now in this political climate that still includes racism that many people assumed was long gone.
My parents were Kennedy Democrats – liberals for five minutes in the 60’s – and taught us that everyone was equal and to treat everyone that way. On the face of it, that’s great, but it’s also naive. I’m glad my parents aren’t around to see their naivete cost lives.
When I first heard the phrase “white privilege” I didn’t understand. I didn’t feel privileged. I was a woman who saw men get things I would never get, financially insecure, and with a sexual orientation that did not please my parents, who made it clear they didn’t want to know about it. At all.
It took time for me to learn that one can have privilege in one way and not in another. It took time for me to see that my naivete might have been endearing when I was young, but was embarrassing as an adult.
So I appreciate what you’ve shared, as a writer, as a person I appreciate it, because not only do you show me your life/world/heart, you also show me mine. And that I’m not five, I’m almost sixty-five, and silence/fading into the woodwork is not an acceptable default position. Not now. Not ever. Thanks again.
Carol, your sentiment here has touched me. I sense the profound transformation in your own journey from naivete to the dawning of a new understanding of your own privilege. An understanding of your own responsibility to use your voice for change.
I’ve lived most of my life in the default position of silence. It’s only in recent years that I’ve truly found my own voice. I can tell you that it will give purpose to your writing and to your life. Kudos to you for the self-work you’re doing.
All best.
I love how your spirit comes through every word you write, Nancy. And I appreciate your long view, impressing upon us that what is needed is not spikes in interest when it’s trendy but sustained, sincere work that may fly under the social media radar but is where the real progress is made.
I’m excited about what the future holds for you. Excited to think about the ways in which you will bring black joy to the fore. It’s my fervent hope that white folks will understand that awareness of black pain is not the end of the story or the end of our responsibility but the beginning of developing real relationships built on honesty, trust, love, and shared dreams.
Hi, Erin! Yes, it’s all about the long view. The killings of unarmed Black people just keeps recurring. Our eyes and the eyes of the media are on them momentarily until the next crisis. You’re exactly right that this work needs to be sustained if it’s to have real impact.
Reading about racism is a start but as you said, real relationship-building is what will help us see our shared humanity.
Thanks, as always!
P.S. I’m almost finished with the summary for book 2 and will call soon to discuss. :)
Hello Nancy,
So many lines in your post stand out to me.
The first passage that caught my attention was “Writing can be a lofty, altruistic endeavor, but it can also be hazardous. Living while Black and then writing about it can be injurious. Truth-telling costs. The emotional labor of justifying my outrage and explaining my humanity is exhausting.”
I think we often are unaware of how much emotional work we casually demand others perform for us. How often we ask someone of a different background, religion, race, or orientation to explain their experiences for our education and/or curiosity.
I believe a lot of us think, “I’m asking questions because I want to learn about this other person’s experiences. I want to be a good friend/neighbor/colleague. I want to know how I can be an ally.”
And that’s admirable.
But we don’t consider how our questions put another person in the spotlight. We aren’t aware of how often that person has fielded questions or what kinds of trauma we’re asking to explore. And, we don’t realize that some people aren’t suited for and don’t want the responsibility of being an educator.
I keep thinking about an earlier period in my life when I first came out. At the time, not many LGBTQ people were out in my community. I fielded a lot of questions from colleagues and casual acquaintances.
As someone who wanted to be seen as “a good person” and who wanted to help make other LGBTQ people’s lives easier, I answered a lot of those questions. Until I realized that some discussions veered into prurient interest. Or were about aspects of the LGBTQ community that I simply wasn’t able to address.
The urge to point at the library and say, “Hey, why don’t you try reading a book” was strong. I don’t think I ever used it, but I now wonder why I didn’t.
That brings me to another line from your post: “It’s important though to be a lifelong learner.”
That is true for so many topics.
Hearing that bookstores couldn’t keep anti-racism books on their shelves gave me both a good feeling but also a sense of despair.
I’m thrilled people want to learn and are reaching for recommended titles. But I am frustrated that it’s taken this long for some to notice what’s happening.
And I see those who actively resist, who are willfully clinging to biases. I am not sure how to reach them.
I guess I hold onto the hope that most people want to learn and change. That we are growing toward our ideals.
Thank you for today’s post. I’ll be printing it for review.
Ruth, yes, you get it! Every time an unarmed Black person has been gunned down this year, I’ve fielded questions from various white people about what it’s like to be Black in America. While I want to be part of the solution, it can be burdensome. Your analogy about explaining the LGBTQ community is perfect. It’s such a conundrum because we want to advance the cause but not at our own expense, especially when we’re adversely impacted by the problem we’re trying to solve.
As rough as this year has been, I, too, am encouraged by all the people who want to grow and change.
Thanks again for your important perspective!
Every bit of your eloquent post is true, and extremely powerful. I agree that white people words of change need to be backed up by long-term action, and I’ve been watching the last several months with honest to goodness fear that the white community is going to let the Black community down. White people don’t have the best track record with supporting the Black community. I’m hopeful, though, that this time in our lives is a movement, not a moment.
Part of why I’m hopeful is because of the stories. Not just the anecdotes that Black people have shared about their own experiences of racism, but the own-voices stories of fiction, that do share the Black experience not related to slavery or living in the deep south. The stories of Black Girl Magic and Black Boy Joy, the stories of family and relationships and friendships. These are the stories that are making the difference in white people because it helps white people like me who grew up in rural America where there isn’t a whole lot of diversity see Black people and understand their experiences.
I’m hopeful because maybe my generation and my parent’s generation are stupid about race relations and are having to catch up for the anti-racist exam, but my kids, and their friends, are growing up with all these stories and movies, and seeing and experiencing Black life vicariously. That is so much more powerful for them to develop empathy for the Black community than me just talking to them about it all. It’s also why it is so important to have own-voices stories in my opinion.
Lara, you’re so right. The stories we tell through fiction matter more than ever. Black Girl Magic and Black Boy Joy are paramount for many reasons. Not just because of the white gaze. Most importantly, the Black community can see itself in all its magnificence that has nothing to do with the struggle.
You’re right that each generation shows us the way and leads us to a better place. We saw that in the protest marches this summer where young people were out front.
I really appreciate your perspective and thinking on this topic. All best!
This is so beautifully raw. Thank you for sharing, Nancy.
Thanks, Sarah, for reading! :)
Dear Nancy, you’ve written eloquently and truly. Isn’t it amazing this writing life we have? It saves us. You began in sorrow, with memories of your ancestors shackled and ended with: “I’m the sculptor adding the texture, the layers that give a life or character its fullness, its richness. That’s how I can write through the pain to find Black joy, and tell that, too.” Keep on writing, Nancy.
Vijaya, thank you! You captured it perfectly. I vacillate between this deeps sorrow and inspired sense of purpose as a writer. Yes, I will keep writing and telling stories that need to be told.
I appreciate your encouragement!
Thank You for sharing Nancy.
In my opinion, history has shown that White Americans practice reductionism as a response to moments like these where racial inequality comes to the front of the national conversation. Almost like a rubber stamp, our society looks for an easy-to-understand explanation of what’s happened. Since the national conversation is more diffuse in the 21st century vs the 20th (the internet being the difference), are White People still looking for that rubber stamp? What would it take for our society to PERMANENTLY incorporate a holistic view of racism and its negative effects?
I’m not asking these questions to you directly, just my own rhetorical musings.
James, I think you’re asking the right questions. The simplification of racism to focus solely on the actions of individuals allows people to say: “I’ve never used the n-word and I have a Black friend, so I’m not racist.” They miss the systemic and structural aspects that impact housing, employment, education, the criminal justice system, and more. When they see it as structural, they can then see how they benefit from privilege and do something to dismantle it.
Thanks for your insight!
This is so moving and illuminating…and painful, as shining light on the shadowed places can so often be. Thank you for sharing–I’m passing along to authors via my editing newsletter.
Tiffany, I’m glad this resonated with you. Thank you so much for sharing!
Hi, Nancy:
I grew up in a very segregated midwestern city: Columbus, Ohio. I didn’t have an actual conversation with an African American my age until I was thirteen. His name was Adrian Bennet. We both volunteered at the Center for Science & Industry. He was attending Central High, learning to be a chef. I remember, to my shame, being surprised at how “normal” he was.
That was the beginning of a lifelong education, which has had its rough spots, and its lovely ones. I wrote an essay about being white and writing across ethnic and cultural lines; it was used as an “afterword” to my novel Do They Know I’m Running? It was titled “Going Humbly,” in reference to one of my favorite quotes, from John Coltrane: “When there is something you do not understand, you must go humbly to it.”
I fear that the larger white world’s current obsession with “educating itself” will prove shortlived if it cannot begin with that simple guidance.
And yet I have also learned that humility is not enough. Humility may define the initial approach, but love guides us from there.
It is so easy to fall back into the stew of ugly misconceptions which our unconscious spits up before the mind’s eyes before we have time to stop, take a breath, open our eyes — and our hearts. But that’s the gig, as it were. And writing, by giving us that time to open our eyes and our minds and our hearts, is one of the best ways to overcome the negative gravitational pull of our hatreds, our fears, our self-serving pieties, our lousy hurtful jokes.
I think if we write from a perspective of love, to “blow on the coal of the heart” in the words of Archibald MacLeish, we are on our surest footing. Love of the forgotten, the voiceless, for:
“…the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones and worse
And for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe…”
Add to that humble, honest love for ourselves, the better to share that love with others.
Thank you. I too feel ready to write now.
P.S. I forget now where I heard this, but I remember the words well: “Jesus didn’t tell us to tolerate one another. He told us to love one another.”
Beautifully said, David. You met Adrian when you were 13. So many in the white community don’t have meaningful interactions with African-American people even as adults. If they have “one Black friend”… many treat that person as an exception. “You’re not like them.”
I agree that the gravitational pull of hatred is something people have to continuously resist. As I mentioned to someone above, it’s easy to believe this conversation is not about you because you’ve never hurled a racial epithet. Hatred has been institutionalized. Love is certainly the way forward.
Thanks for your eloquence on this!
Wow. I don’t have any words. But you’re incredible. Thank you for being you and sharing your experience,e your thoughts and your brilliant writing. I’m honored to be your friend.
Alison, I’m so glad you connected with this piece. Thank you for reading and sharing!
Nancy,
I’m sorry for what it takes from you and others to field these questions and write these pieces.
“The course syllabus is only a guide and it can’t confer a degree of changed policies or changed hearts. The things that last will be the genuine relationships you develop, the votes you cast, and the progress that you demand.”
I would add, the actions taken by white people to stop racism.
A gaping wound has ripped open in my town of 35,000, which is a 91% white suburb filled with people who fled the “urban” problems the next City over (including me). Some want to preserve that division that was first enforced through redlining and now reinforced through zoning, lack of Black hires in town leadership and schools, and a culture of unwantedness.
Others push for action. Others read. Most are too busy in overextended lives. The resulting discord has been uncomfortable.
But, nothing approaching your discomfort.
Thank you for going there with your writing. You are inspiring change even on days it may not seem you are.
So is Breanna and her Dodge, Ahmaud and his side-eye, and the notes of George’s songs floating in his teammates’ memories.
Heather, thanks so much for your perspective. White flight is a reality in many of our communities. I’m glad you mentioned redlining and zoning. Those are perfect examples of how racism becomes institutionalized and stunts progress for communities for generations.
I hope change will emerge after these senseless murders. I also hope that my writing will inspire others. Thank you for that.
Thank you for this post. As a 60-something white grandma who enjoys a number of Black friends, I especially appreciate this: “Still, I’m gratified by the empathy, the sincere interest, and the desire to understand. It’s important though to be a lifelong learner. … The things that last will be the genuine relationships you develop, the votes you cast, and the progress that you demand.”
One helpful resource for me has been John Piper’s book “Bloodlines.”
Thanks, Jan, for your input. I’ll have to add John Piper’s book to my reading list. Again, I appreciate your comment.
Hi Nancy!
I would like to respond to all your responders. I have read many comments sharing apologies, sympathy, admitted naivety, and musings about what can be done to balance the scale of inequality that black people experience. I struggled to find a less confrontational way to put this but,
How many of you will vote republican this fall!?
In good faith, I will venture a guess that the majority in this particular group are well educated, well read, and well traveled. But those qualities do not inoculate us from hypocrisy.
Ultimately, we will all be judged by how we live (publicly), not by what we read, or the enlightenment that we experience privately.
I maintain that if white America really wanted to end racism the answers are obvious!!
Nichola, I agree that our votes will have a significant impact on issues facing Black America: health care, redlining, voter suppression, educational inequality, disinvestment in Black communities, the prison pipeline, and more.
Our hearts will be visible by what we do, not what we say. Thanks for making this important point!
Thank you for this very emotional piece that made me emotional. Please keep those fingers going.
Dawn, it gratifies me to know that something I’ve written has touched people. Thank you for letting me know. And don’t worry. My fingers are busy! Thanks again.
Damn, this was good. Thank you.
Kristan, I’m glad you connected strongly with this piece. Thanks so much!
This is so powerfully said, Nancy. Thank you for writing this, and thinking it, and living it. I read this part about five times: “The course syllabus is only a guide and it can’t confer a degree of changed policies or changed hearts. The things that last will be the genuine relationships you develop, the votes you cast, and the progress that you demand.” Amen!
Thank you, Nancy, for this essay. Your points are important. We African Americans must be seen as human beings, as 3-dimensional beings in all of our humanity. And no, society can’t cram for the anti-racism exam or “buy black” out of pity and expect to see positive change. There must be an emotional investment made in African American life by genuine relationship building. Without that, I don’t see much hope for improvement.